Coming home
The dark
doesn’t reveal anything,
everything concealed,
forsaken.
A wounded
fox leans on stilted legs,
but he
won’t break, he won’t fall;
he doesn’t know
the meaning of it.
This grey
urban won’t kill him yet.
The labyrinthe
welcomes him, draws
him into its
scattered neon heart.
He misses
the fields his ancestors knew,
played in,
raised young and hunted.
Nowadays,
he scuffs around for scraps,
looks for
bowls donated by humans.
It’s their
land, their rules, their way,
the animals
come second, ever lower.
A car honks
as it drives by, rain rushing,
just to see
him flinch, hunch back down.
The mist yawns,
opens to a stilted cry.
He follows
her scent. Something known.
Copyright
January 26, 2021
